The Ruined House

Untenanted , set high upon a hill,
The old house, bit by bit and day by day,
Succumbs to unseen tenure of decay;
Dust cakes and cracks on door and windowsill;
The floors slope downward and the corners fill
With webs whose spiders die for lack of prey:
I think that there is nothing more to say,
The silence waits so haunted and so still....
There let the moon pause with a great, white hush,
The bat's wing with its stroke of softness brush, —
There let the sunrise rest — while slow winds blow —
Like some strayed traveller that turns to go,
Finding no answer at the echoing door
But stillness crying " Go, and come no more! "
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.